


Steps, Time, Maybe a Bear

by softsylvie



Series: Otherworld [2]
Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: anxiety attack, dealing with survivor's guilt, mentions/allusions to violence, more tags to come as one-shots are added!, reader's background isn't exactly a happy one, there will probably be some lighthearted fluff in these things i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsylvie/pseuds/softsylvie
Summary: A collection of short-stories/one-shot spinoffs from my fanfiction, Otherworld, as well as my mucking about with the Valiant AU.  Fluff, awkwardness and likely dark humor ahoy!





	Steps, Time, Maybe a Bear

You feel like a prize idiot.

Backfire.  That’s all it was.  Just a beaten up jalopy somewhere, waking with a proverbial cough, but somehow it had been _perfectly_ loud enough at _just_ the right moment.  And when it woke you, the only thing that filled your head, the only thing you could see was the looming black iron eye of a shotgun barrel.  You saw yourself staring straight into it, a bulky older man on the other side of it, flinging a grin of rotten teeth your way right before –

A crack, a boom, and you were awake trying to puzzle out where the shotgun could be. 

Leaping up out of bed, your breath races in and out.  No control, none at all.  Your first instinct had been to _draw,_ to look for the pistol that you always kept on hand.  After you’d woken in White Hat manor, of course, your pistol was nowhere to be found.  And it would likely never be found again; White Hat has very strong feelings about firearms, none of them shining.

_Whoever’s next up on that block better get goin’.  I don’t miss twice._

_It’s not… you’re not back there anymore._ You shut your eyes against the gray light of dawn in your window.  _Just backfire.  Just a truck.  It wasn’t real, just calm down.  Calm down, you moron._

Except the train’s out the station, and there’s no pulling it back. 

Your heart thumps up near the back of your throat, and you’re up, you’re starting to pace and you’re wringing your hands, and all you can hear is the echo of the gunshot, and all you can see is one of Curtis’ old buddies in those stupid asshole sunglasses, and all you can see is the spattered red across the pavement, and all you can do is listen, and all you can do is look away and–

“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop, please, please, stop, please, stop, please….!” 

You pace, pace until you tear into your private bathroom.

Once you get some cold water running in the sink, you try to rinse off your face.  It doesn’t do much to sate what feels like a fever, flaming up your neck to burn you alive.  You feel sick.  Utterly sick.  It’s only getting harder to breathe, harder to keep control, to keep from gasping for air as your chest tightens like a hangman’s knot.

“Stop.  Stop.  _Stop…!_ ” 

It doesn’t.

But then shit like this has never existed for convenience; name a person happy to feel like this and you’ve found yourself a masochist. 

 _Why the fuck are you doing this,_ you rage silently at yourself, gripping the white marble counter until your knuckles pop.  _Why the fuck are you doing this, why can’t you just stop, you’re not back there you fucking idiot!!_

Still it doesn’t stop.

When you hear a brisk knock at your door, followed by White Hat’s voice calling your name, you can practically _feel_ the color spilling out of your face.  You claw into the counter until you could swear your fingers are going to snap like twigs. 

_No, no, no, no, no…!_

“Are you awake, dear?” White Hat calls from the other side of the door, following up with another knock.  “Now come on, sleepyhead!  Breakfast is in ten minutes!” 

_Shit.  Shit.  Shit!_

Was it really almost that time already?  You hadn’t glimpsed a clock, and you have no idea how long you’ve been pacing your room like a lunatic, hanging onto the counter, shouting at yourself to just _stop_ and _get it together and stop being so stupid._

You hear White Hat call your name again.  Another knock.

_Why can’t he just…!_

“Hello?  Are you awake?”  A much louder knock, one fully meant to wake you.  “Are you all right?”

This isn’t the first time he’s had to ask you that question, either.  Sometimes, when the dreams are bad enough at night, you have what are called Bad Days.  And they’re rightly called that, because on those mornings it’s almost impossible to get you out of bed.  You’d lie there as empty and spent as an old rucksack, numb, barely wanting to move or even be alive, let alone wake up and greet the day as happily as Lumencia always seemed to. 

So you can’t say you’re at all surprised when the door to your room creaks open, and you hear White Hat step in.  “Dear?  Are you all right?” he asks, his tone knowingly gentle.  He’s already figured this to be a delicate situation, at least.  “Where are you…?  Oh.”  He pauses as he ascertains your location, not that it’s exactly a secret.  Your bathroom door is wide open.  “Should I step back out?”

You manage to pry your hands off the counter.  “N-no,” you manage.  As quiet as your voice is now, you know he can hear you just fine.  “N-no.  No.” 

In the fixed square of the mirror, you can see White Hat frowning as realization flickers in his expression.  “Oh…”  He draws in behind you, slowly, as if wary you’ll go darting off if he should move too fast.  “Another rough morning, hm?”

His voice isn’t unkind, as he very carefully bridges the gap hanging between you.  You almost spin around then and there, terrified as you are right now to have your back open to anyone.  You _want_ to go darting off, that’s the thing. 

White Hat holds up both his hands.  Unarmed.  As open and gentle as his own face.  “It’s all right,” he says, calling your name to keep your attention.  “It’s all right, dear.  It’s all right, no one is going to hurt you.  You’re in a safe place.”

When he chances another step forward, you do spin around, hands flying to re-grip the counter. 

He sighs sympathetically.  “Let’s try coming out here for a bit, all right?” he asks, reaching out to you.  “Somewhere that’s a little more open.  You’re okay, dear.  It’s okay, you’re in a safe place, nothing bad is going to happen...”

You start to force your breath through your nose.  “How do you know…?” you croak out in a low voice.  “How do you know, how do you…!” 

White Hat steps a little bit closer, his hand still extended.  “Come out here with me?” he asks, his look imploring.  “Come on out.  It’s all right, dear.  Let’s have you sit down for a spell, somewhere a little more comfortable.”

He keeps his hand out, waiting patiently until you force yourself to let go of the counter.  You look over your shoulder, somewhat stupidly, but you only feel that measly inch safer when you know that no one is creeping up behind you.  No one is going to jump you, try to kill you for your rations, try to shoot you because you’re there and why the fuck not because the world’s already gone to hell.

You take his hand.  White Hat leads you back out to your room, guiding you to seat yourself on the edge of your mattress.  He sits down faithfully right beside you, assuring you, his voice as low and soothing as it had been in those first few days when you’d woken up here.

“Good, you’re doing great so far, dear.  Now let’s try breathing a bit more slowly,” White Hat says, before drawing a steady gulp of air and releasing it with just as much deliberation.  “In… and out.  In… and out…”

It takes a couple botched attempts, but somehow you stumble into rhythm along with him. 

“And out… in… and out… that’s it, good.”  White Hat smiles, baring you a perfect pearly grin that you know is solely for your benefit.  It’s just breathing.  It’s just acting _normal,_ and you feel like a complete moron.  “Good.  It’s okay.  I’m right here, and we’ll get through this, won’t we?”

You shut your eyes tightly, trying your hardest to just… _stop._ Make it _stop._

“Can you look at me?”

“N-no.”  You shake your head, trying and silently screaming to bury the storm inside you.  “I-I’m… n-no.”

“All right.  But can I ask you what you think might be causing this?” White Hat asks, and you can almost see it perfectly in your mind, you can see him looking at you with that sad and ancient expression of his.  The torn smile, where that unreal kindness glimmers as naturally as a slat of sunshine in his eyes and practically compels anyone he’s asking to spill their heart on their sleeve.  “Did you have bad dreams?”

You nod woodenly.  “Y-yeah.  Yeah.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

You swallow against what feels like a clump of congealed tar in your throat.  “I’m sorry,” you choke out.  “Just.  Stupid.”

“No, it’s… is it all right if I touch your shoulder?  Would you be all right with that?”

You throw him a nod, fingers twisting into your blankets as he clasps his hand on you with quite a bit of purpose, giving you all the warning you need.  You feel yourself relax by the barest fraction.  Nothing bad is going to happen, that’s what he said, but…

“It’s okay,” White Hat murmurs close to your ear.  “You’ll be all right.  Remember, this is a safe place.  No one is going to hurt you, I’m right here, you’ll be all right…” 

Eventually, sometime down the line of what feels eerily like forever, your breath starts to calm.  Eventually, you force yourself to open your eyes.  You glance at the clock wearily, seeing that breakfast is far past due.  It’s likely Lumencia is wondering where you two are.  Zug might be, if he’d woken up hungry and decided to come down to breakfast on time for once, and 624 would be expecting his meal if –

“Don’t you worry about anything in that kitchen,” White Hat says, translating your wandering gaze.  “Right now, _you’re_ more important.”

“I-I’m being an idiot,” you say hoarsely.  You fumble for other words, but the fact is you’re running on a few cards short of a full deck, here.  You’re still on your hinges, but they’re barely hanging on.  “I’m being an idiot, they’re just dreams, I’m not even _back_ there anymore, it’s all so _stupid_ , I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to… deal with this.”

“Now, that’s enough of that,” White Hat replies patiently, once you’ve finished.  “It quite obviously affects you, dear, so it’s not _stupid_ or idiotic to _me._   This isn’t something you can simply write off, toss away or pretend it never happened.  This _affects_ you, and that’s not _stupid,_ that’s perfectly normal.  For anyone.”

You sag, unconsciously leaning towards him, leaning into his touch.  As much as that nasty voice inside you wants to take that argument with him, you simply can’t, right now.  For however long you’ve been burying all this, you feel like your fingers are worn to the bones. 

“It’s all right,” White Hat says.  “You know that you can talk to me, don’t you?  I promise, there’s not a word you could say that would make me judge you, or think any less of you.”

“Have a hard time believing that,” you mumble.

“Any particular reason you feel that way?”

“I just…!”  You shut your eyes again, trying to blot out the sound of gunshots.  “I don’t…!  It feels like I didn’t… do enough…!”

“Do enough for what?”

“T-them, the ones that were…!”  You bunch the blankets up in your fists, and you will yourself to hurt them, claw into them as if they were flesh.  Your own or maybe someone else’s, there’s no telling.  “T-they were being shot.  Like I told you.  In that town.”

A beat passes as he recalls that fateful late night you two shared on the back patio.  “Ah… that.  I see,” White Hat says quietly, solemnly.  His hand on your shoulder tightens a little.  “Do you feel… guilty, perhaps, for surviving as long as you did?  For leaving that town behind?”

What else can you do?  You nod.  Because that’s _exactly_ what you feel, any time you hear something that drags you back to Painter’s Rock.  That’s exactly what every storm whips into you, with hurricane winds that bite through your every defense.  It’s what you feel, it’s what you see, recalling it like the _coward_ you are.  “I-I left, I had to, I left, I-I didn’t even…!” 

“Shhh.”  White Hat shifts a bit closer, the mattress creaking a bit beneath his weight.  “Dear, sometimes…”  He sighs as he trails off, before starting in again.  “The simplest way to put it is that you recognized the situation for what it was.  You knew it was dangerous, and I think something within you also knew that fighting back wouldn’t have ended well for you.  Would you say that instinct was right?”  He looks straight at you, almost daring you to challenge him.

You don’t have to answer.  He knows it as clearly as you do how well that would have ended.

Heart, hope, the right thing, and lots of spirit are all great things to have in fairytales, but you sure as shit don’t bring them to a fight against five men with shotguns and happy trigger fingers.  Your pistol wouldn’t have made a lick of difference either, and you know it.

“I… if… maybe…!” 

White Hat draws in a little closer.  “Can I ask you something?  And please, look at me.”

By the force of a miracle, you do.  You lift your head, the better to wordlessly level your gazes. 

“Who was responsible for what happened in that town?  Do you know their names?” 

“Curtis, he was the ringleader, him and his buddies,” you mumble.  “Not sure what that has to do with anything.”

“It actually has plenty to do with it,” White Hat replies.  “You _know._   You were even able to name the person _responsible_ for what was happening to those people.  You _named_ him.  Curtis, not _you_.  Or were you somehow better armed to tackle that situation than anyone else in that town?”

You let off a sigh, trembling now beneath his hand.  Logically, you suppose it makes sense.  Maybe if you weren’t so fucked up, it would make _better_ sense, but your mind is clutching those memories as tightly as an old skin that won’t be shed so easily.

That’s apparently all the answer he needs, as he draws ever closer.  “Would you be all right with a hug right now?” he asks softly.  When you nod, he moves in and draws you up against him. 

And you’re actually content there, resting your chin against his chest.  It feels as though your mind actually… _stops_ , for a moment.  You don’t _have_ to think.  You don’t _have_ to justify.  You don’t _have_ to try, frantically, to explain to your nightmares why you couldn’t have been the big goddamn hero.

You were no _White Hat,_ after all.

“I feel like such an asshole,” you mumble numbly, before realizing what you’ve said.  “Sorry.  Language.  I know.”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” White Hat says with a weak chuckle.  “May I ask you something else?”

You pause, wary about where this might be going, but you’re intrigued enough to tip a nod.

“I wonder if… do you truly blame yourself for what happened?” White Hat asks, easing you back, the better to look you in the eye as he speaks to you.  “Or is all this because… well, blaming yourself is a bit easier than blaming Curtis?”

Rattled, you can only blink back with a hollow attempt at understanding, unsure of what to even say to that.  It almost leaves you feeling slapped, in a way.  “I-I… I’m not…”

But the entity is showing you his tired, battle torn smile.  “It’s always a bit easier to blame yourself than someone else when these things happen, isn’t it?” White Hat asks.  He’s smiling, but he wears it like a torn suit, like a spatter of war paint, with only the barest sense of purpose.  “Easier to say that _we_ messed things up than admit the simple truth of being helpless, you could say.”

“I _did_ mess things up.”

“Did you?”

“I _had_ to have!  You don’t wake up feeling like this because everything was fucking fine and you did every-fucking-thing right!” 

White Hat holds up a hand.  “Stop,” he says.  “Now just calm down.  Do you _really_ think that you could have changed things?  Was this Curtis fellow a reasonable one, do you think?  Did anyone else in that town try to stop all this?”

For a second, Painter’s Rock laughs in your face.  No, no one else had tried.  No one else had even given a damn enough to try; the town had been rife with shrugging, selling rations, looking out for number one.  That was how the whole ordeal happened in the first place, when Curtis had a falling out with some other asshole who had tried staking his claim on the pharmacy.

No, Curtis had not been reasonable.  In fact, he’d been drunk as a skunk half the time and happy to deal in blasts to the chest for the grave sin of muttering under your breath at him. 

Others had _talked_ about rising up against him, sure.  They’d _talked_ about leaving, but that was all it was.  Talk.  Talk that does a good helping of jack shit to change the ending.  One night, you’d simply decided.  You’d decided that was it, and you’d told the others they were free to follow, you’d told them that they could come with you….

Except none of them followed.

As you tell him all this, ramble all this, White Hat listens intently.  “I’m sorry,” he says, once you’ve finished.  “I’m sorry this all happened.  And I’m sorry that you were all in such a terrible situation.”

You shake your head forcefully, pushing those memories with what feel like aching hands.  “I should’ve gone back.”

“Or perhaps Curtis should have never raised a gun on people that he presumed to be protecting,” White Hat says.  “But then, perhaps… perhaps this is a bit easier to fixate on.  Maybe it’s a bit easier to blame yourself than face the fact that sometimes, for a time that must have been _terrifying_ for you, you simply didn’t _have_ control.”

“I’m…”  You let out a long breath.  “I’m not so sure I wanna talk about this anymore.  No more.”

White Hat nods.  “I understand,” he says, before resting a hand gingerly on top of yours.  “Any time you _are_ ready to talk more about this, I'll be here to listen.  Are you feeling a little better now, dear?  Do you think you could come downstairs, or would you rather I bring your plate up here to you?”

“I’m all right,” you mutter with another jittery sigh.  You catch the incredulous turn of his mouth and correct yourself.  “I’ll _be_ all right.”

He smiles a little.  “Well, that’s a bit more honest,” he says, patting your shoulder as he stands.  “So let’s go, dear.  I think some pancakes will help start your day off on a better foot.”

You start to shadow him out the door into the hallway, feeling somehow a bit more stable but stripped and cracked and broken all at once.  You’re misshapen on that white carpet, in that perfect corridor, in this perfect house. 

No more misshapen than anyone else, you suppose.

“North,” you mumble, calling him by that first name you’d given him, in the throes of the fever that nearly killed you.  “I just… thank you.”

White Hat only regards you over his shoulder as kindly as he ever has, beaming with a warmth that nearly stuns you.  “Think nothing of it.  Now let’s hurry a bit!  I’m pretty sure Lumencia made those pancakes with chocolate chips!  _White_ chocolate chips!  And _strawberries!_ ” 

And somehow, that’s enough hope to get you through the morning.

Because sometimes the steps you take have got to be that small and simple, but at least they’re steps forward.

You’re thankful for that much.


End file.
